Children playing

While walking through a park I came upon a wall of glass.

On the other side of the glass I saw a young girl of indeterminate age, skipping as she held her father's hand. Her long hair was in curls, and bounced up and down as she skipped. In her white ruffled dress and patent leather shoes, she looked to be dressed for a party instead of a day at the park. I wondered what her father was thinking, allowing her to wear the dress to play as I watched them walk along the sidewalk. Her cheeks still had the blush that every little girl is given at birth, and her eyes had the sparkle every child posesses before it is dimmed by too many sad sights. She was the picture of innocence and freshness; she made me think of Spring with it's newness and sunshine.

She would pause every few yards as the wildflowers nearby caught her eye. She would hurry to pick them, letting go of her father's hand to run a little farther. When she had wandered too far for his liking, he gently called her back. Each time she let go of his hand, she ignored his calling a little more. He became firm with her, and finally, with a chastened look, she returned to his side with a handful of flowers.

They continued to the playground, and all I could do was shake my head, thinking of that beautiful white dress and those shiny patent shoes, all scuffed, dusty, and possibly muddy from the remnants of a storm not too long past. I heard him give her a few directions. Keep to the playground. Stay off the monkey bars; today you're too little, in about a year you'll be big enough. Hold on tight to the bars on the merry go round; if you fall it will hurt. He sat on a bench close by, his eyes intently following her every move as she joined the other children. She was always in his sight, although she seemed to never spare him a glance.

I saw her jump excitedly on the merry go round, at first seating herself near the middle, both of her arms wrapped tightly around the bar. She laughed as it spun, her hair whipping about in the wind as she watched a few more daring children move towards the edge as they held their hands up, shouting, "Look! No hands!" They were having such fun! Every one of the other children were watching them enviously. She thought of how wonderful it would feel to spin with her eyes closed, hands in the air, standing even; it would be almost like flying. She moved to the edge, raised her hands, closed her eyes, and stood as one of the bigger boys spun the merry go round. Her father called to her, but she ignored him.

Immediately, she fell off onto the ground, ripping the hem of her dress, splattering it with muck, and skinning her knee. She ran to her father weeping and threw herself in his arms. He held her until she calmed, wiped her tears, kissed her knee, smoothed her hair, and repeated his instructions. He then sent her back to play. Surely not! I thought. She's already ruined that beautiful dress. She's hurt! Take her home!

I was shocked as I watched her leave his arms and run to join the other children - the dress was spotless. Her knee showed no signs of injury. Every hair was in place. There were no tear tracks on her face. The patent shoes could still reflect her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.

I watched transfixed as she played. For a while she followed her father's directions to the letter, but then stopped to watch another child on the monkey bars. "That's not for you!" her father called. "You're still too little. Pretty soon you'll be big enough!" She looked at him, but ignored his words. She began to climb the ladder, then grabbed the first bar with her tiny, tender fingers. She hung on the first bar for a second that seemed to stretch to hours, and then attempted to reach the second bar. Her hands were too small to hang on, and her reach too short. She looked down to the ground, and was suddenly struck with the knowledge that the monkey bars were more than twice her height. With that thought, she fell and crumpled to the ground.

Her father raced to her side and lifted her up, her dress dripping with the mud she had landed in, her shoes covered in it. He carried her back to the bench and held her as he had the first time, rocking her back and forth to calm her, smoothing her hair, kissing her tears away, and repeating his directions. He held her longer this time, and when he told her to go back and play, she clung tighter to him. He urged her to go and join the other children, telling her to remind them to be careful as well. "Tell them my directions. Tell them if they follow them they won't be hurt as you have been." She finally left his lap and walked onto the playground. once again spotless and fresh as a daisy before it is picked.

As I watched her play, I noted that this time, she followed his directions. Whenever she was distracted and begun to wander too close to the boundaries of the playground, her father would call out, and she would return. Every so often she would run to him all smiles, throw herself in his arms and hug him with all of her might. Each time she skipped back to the playground, her white dress and patent shoes still worthy of the finest party.

As I watched her play, I suddenly became aware that the glass was indeed a mirror.

For what are we but children playing?